The remainder of the year ’49 has left me nothing to tell. For me, it was the inane life of that draff of Society—the young man-about-town: the tailor’s, the haberdasher’s, the bootmaker’s, and trinket-maker’s, young man; the dancing and ‘hell’-frequenting young man; the young man of the ‘Cider Cellars’ and Piccadilly saloons; the valiant dove-slayer, the park-lounger, the young lady’s young man—who puts his hat into mourning, and turns up his trousers because—because the other young man does ditto, ditto.

I had a share in the Guards’ omnibus box at Covent Garden, with the privilege attached of going behind the scenes. Ah! that was a real pleasure. To listen night after night to Grisi and Mario, Alboni and Lablache, Viardot and Ronconi, Persiani and Tamburini,—and Jenny Lind too, though she was at the other house. And what an orchestra was Costa’s—with Sainton leader, and Lindley and old Dragonetti, who together but alone, accompanied the recitative with their harmonious chords on ’cello and double-bass. Is singing a lost art? Or is that but a temporis acti question? We who heard those now silent voices fancy there are none to match them nowadays. Certainly there are no dancers like Taglioni, and Cerito, and Fanny Elsler, and Carlotta Grisi.

After the opera and the ball, one finished the night at Vauxhall or Ranelagh; then as gay, and exactly the same, as they were when Miss Becky Sharpe and fat Jos supped there only five-and-thirty years before.

Except at the Opera, and the Philharmonic, and Exeter Hall, one rarely heard good music. Monsieur Jullien, that prince of musical mountebanks—the ‘Prince of Waterloo,’ as John Ella called him, was the first to popularise classical music at his promenade concerts, by tentatively introducing a single movement of a symphony here and there in the programme of his quadrilles and waltzes and music-hall songs.

Mr. Ella, too, furthered the movement with his Musical Union and quartett parties at Willis’s Rooms, where Sainton and Cooper led alternately, and the incomparable Piatti and Hill made up the four. Here Ernst, Sivori, Vieuxtemps, and Bottesini, and Mesdames Schumann, Dulcken, Arabella Goddard, and all the famous virtuosi played their solos.

Great was the stimulus thus given by Ella’s energy and enthusiasm. As a proof of what he had to contend with, and what he triumphed over, HallÉ’s ‘Life’ may be quoted, where it says: ‘When Mr. Ella asked me [this was in 1848] what I wished to play, and heard that it was one of Beethoven’s pianoforte sonatas, he exclaimed “Impossible!” and endeavoured to demonstrate that they were not works to be played in public.’ What seven-league boots the world has stridden in within the memory of living men!

John Ella himself led the second violins in Costa’s band, and had begun life (so I have been told) as a pastry-cook. I knew both him and the wonderful little Frenchman ‘at home.’ According to both, in their different ways, Beethoven and Mozart would have been lost to fame but for their heroic efforts to save them.

I used occasionally to play with Ella at the house of a lady who gave musical parties. He was always attuned to the highest pitch,—most good-natured, but most excitable where music was to the fore. We were rehearsing a quintett, the pianoforte part of which was played by the young lady of the house—a very pretty girl, and not a bad musician, but nervous to the point of hysteria. Ella himself was in a hypercritical state; nothing would go smoothly; and the piano was always (according to him) the peccant instrument. Again and again he made us restart the movement. There were a good many friends of the family invited to this last rehearsal, which made it worse for the poor girl, who was obviously on the brink of a breakdown. Presently Ella again jumped off his chair, and shouted: ‘Not E flat! There’s no E flat there; E natural! E natural! I never in my life knew a young lady so prolific of flats as you.’ There was a pause, then a giggle, then an explosion; and then the poor girl, bursting into tears, rushed out of the room.

It was at Ella’s house that I first heard Joachim, then about sixteen, I suppose. He had not yet performed in London. All the musical celebrities were present to hear the youthful prodigy. Two quartetts were played, Ernst leading one and Joachim the other. After it was over, everyone was enraptured, but no one more so than Ernst, who unhesitatingly predicted the fame which the great artist has so eminently achieved.

One more amusing little story belongs to my experiences of these days. Having two brothers and a brother-in-law in the Guards, I used to dine often at the Tower, or the Bank, or St. James’s. At the Bank of England there is always at night an officer’s guard. There is no mess, as the officer is alone. But the Bank provides dinner for two, in case the officer should invite a friend. On the occasion I speak of, my brother-in-law, Sir Archibald Macdonald, was on duty. The soup and fish were excellent, but we were young and hungry, and the usual leg of mutton was always a dish to be looked forward to.

When its cover was removed by the waiter we looked in vain; there was plenty of gravy, but no mutton. Our surprise was even greater than our dismay, for the waiter swore ‘So ’elp his gawd’ that he saw the cook put the leg on the dish, and that he himself put the cover on the leg. ‘And what did you do with it then?’ questioned my host. ‘Nothing, S’Archibald. Brought it straight in ’ere.’ ‘Do you mean to tell me it was never out of your hands between this and the kitchen?’ ‘Never, but for the moment I put it down outside the door to change the plates.’ ‘And was there nobody in the passage?’ ‘Not a soul, except the sentry.’ ‘I see,’ said my host, who was a quick-witted man. ‘Send the sergeant here.’ The sergeant came. The facts were related, and the order given to parade the entire guard, sentry included, in the passage.

The sentry was interrogated first. ‘No, he had not seen nobody in the passage.’ ‘No one had touched the dish?’ ‘Nobody as ever he seed.’ Then came the orders: ‘Attention. Ground arms. Take off your bear-skins.’ And the truth—i.e., the missing leg—was at once revealed; the sentry had popped it into his shako. For long after that day, when the guard either for the Tower or Bank marched through the streets, the little blackguard boys used to run beside it and cry, ‘Who stole the leg o’ mutton?’